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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320518">we love each other shyly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas'>fearless_seas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thirteen Years. [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Formula 1 RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Break Up, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:49:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,756</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alain opens his eyes and reaches out suddenly. His finger hooks on the edge of Ayrton's sleeve as if his touch were words saying: do not touch me if you have intent to leave.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alain Prost/Ayrton Senna, Nelson Piquet/Alain Prost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thirteen Years. [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1051418</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sorry it's been so long since I published! The whole thing has been written up I just lost the incentive to continue because I had so much IB work junior and senior year. However, I graduated so here I am again with time and some spicy content. This one is quite long as well and is therefore broken up into two chapters.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <b>----- 1988 -----</b></p><p>
  <b>____________________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Pre-season testing would of been plenty uninteresting if not for Ayrton’s company during the winter. It gets to the point they might even be friends. It was a funny feeling, a special one when he got Ayrton to admit even the faintest hint of laughter. It made him realize just how much he enjoyed him and his existence. </p><p> </p><p>___________________________</p><p>
  <b>April 1st</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “Can I come over tonight?”, Nelson shifts closer to him against the concrete wall. He places his hand briefly on his knee and when Alain moves his eyes towards it, the appendage is suddenly moved away. </p><p>          “Alright,” Alain replies, “You know where I am staying?”</p><p>          He forgot his interaction later or, maybe, he'd chosen to pretend as if it never happened. After Nelson leaves, Alain heads back into the garage to wipe off his hands. He passes a small smile to Ayrton who approaches him when his back is turned. Ayrton's dark sunglasses block out the light despite that fact that they are in the shadowed garage. Alain doesn’t hear him approach until he is directly behind him. Bent over the counter searching for a rag, when he stands up, there he is, arched above him holding it out in his hand.</p><p>          Alain reaches for it. “Thanks,” he tosses it back onto the work bench when he's finished. </p><p>          Ayrton nods and then hits him with a proposal. “We should go out for dinner tonight,” he says, crossing his arms confidently over his chest. </p><p>          The question paints his mind for a moment. “That would be nice. Where are you thinking of?”</p><p>          Ayrton grins, “You’ll see.”</p><p> </p><p>_____________________________</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>          Dinner is good and not at all what he expected. The ride back has a comfortable silence to it. </p><p>          “Do you want to come back to my apartment?”, he asks as the lights of the city glitter over the windshield. “For a drink,” he clarifies, “It’s in a nice part of town.”</p><p><em>           Funny,</em> Alain thinks, <em> Nelson has an apartment here too</em>. Then it fully hits him: Nelson, he’d forgotten about him. A smaller and far more quiet portion of his conscious wonders if he truly cared about the messy hookup he was supposed to have tonight. He clenches his hands, clears his mind and looks over at Ayrton, “We should do that.”</p><p>          In an odd turn of events, he doesn’t even feel guilty. </p><p> </p><p>______________________</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>          Ayrton’s apartment is stunning. The top floor of a cascading building and all the little stars ignite themselves over the horizon. Maybe the drink was an excuse because after he poured it into two glasses, Ayrton didn’t even touch his. He only sat across from him on the other couch watching him sip gently at his. </p><p>          “You’re not going to drink it?”, Alain gestures towards his glass. </p><p>          Ayrton jolts his eyes towards it in his hand. “I don’t feel like it,” he admits, setting it down on the coffee table in front of him. </p><p>          Alain raises an eyebrow, “You invite me here to drink, and then you don’t drink?” A chuckle softly leads him, “I’d think you wanted something different.”</p><p>          “Perhaps, you could say that.”</p><p>          Alain's face warms. To change the tempo, Ayrton inquires about being teammates with Niki Lauda. Alain relates the story of Niki looking for his ear at Nurburgring in ‘85. Ayrton quite enjoyed that one. Out of respect, he doesn’t ask about Elio de Angelis, and it doesn’t matter because Ayrton begins bantering on about him anyways. His laugh, leaping from his lungs felt as though it could erase all his troubles. Then it stops, lingers and fades, and Alain gazes up only to see that he is staring at him. His gut twists sweetly, sharpening itself. And he does the only thing he thinks of doing: he smiles at him. He almost wonders if it was out of place. But then, slowly Ayrton’s mouth moves up and returns this to him. </p><p>          Breaking the silence, he asks: “Have you ever had any<em> p</em><em>ão de queijo</em>?” Ayrton is already standing in the kitchen when Alain replies. </p><p>          “Never.”</p><p>          “Then I am going to force you to try it.”</p><p> </p><p>____________________________</p><p>
  <b>April 1st</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “Where were you last night?”, Nelson arrives, flicking him in the forehead. Alain grumbles out a tiny <em> ouch</em>. “I had to do the dirty business all myself last night,” but for some odd reason he doesn’t seem upset. </p><p>          Alain slaps his forehead, “Really, Nelson, it was an accident. I completely forgot.”</p><p>          “Whatever,” he responds, ruffling at Alain’s curls for a brief second and then bringing his hand back down to his side. “What were you doing anyways? You weren’t in your room,” he rests his back against the wall and crosses his legs. </p><p>          Alain doesn’t even blink. “I was out with Senna last night,” he slips his other arm into his uniform. Nelson grows quiet. “We had dinner and a drink,” he mumbles and moves his zipper up over his chest. He notices then that Nelson isn’t even dressed, he also recognizes he hasn't said a word. </p><p>          “Oh,” he carries and his voice is so light that he barely heard it. He clears his throat, “Was it nice? The... dinner."</p><p>          “It was fantastic.”</p><p>          “Good,” when Alain peers over to say something, Nelson's already gone. He only shrugs and heads into the back room to grab up his helmet. </p><p> </p><p>___________________________</p><p>
  <b>April 29th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Everything was going smooth until one day Ayrton throws a newspaper down at his feet after the mechanics have left the room. He looks irritated, his eyes are small and menacing. The paper is crumpled and squashed as though it'd been bound up in his fist for quite a while. </p><p>          “Read it,” he demands. Alain makes a face before bending down to pick it up. He folds it open and reads a few passages in the dim light. </p><p>          “I don’t know Portuguese,” Alain sighs and tries to hand it back to him. </p><p>          Ayrton snatches it. “What does your friend Piquet get out of calling me a homosexual?”, he shouts, his hands coming up above his head. </p><p>          “Wait,” Alain rubs his temples, “What are you talking about?”</p><p>          “Nelson,” he blinks, “Calling me things such as this, it is improper!” He pauses for a moment with a stern  inhale. “You are friends, are you not?”, he lowers his eyes to him as if placing him beneath his scrutiny. It makes Alain feel uncomfortable. He didn’t think it was possible for Ayrton's eyes to grow any darker than they were before. </p><p>          “You could say that.”</p><p>          Ayrton storms off (paper still in hand) and Alain only shakes his head and thinks:</p><p>
  <em>           Am I the only sane person around here? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>April 30th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “Did you say to the press that Ayrton is a homosexual?”, Alain doesn't pull any punches, nor does he offer Nelson the opportunity to budge out of it. </p><p>          Nelson shoots him a funny look, one that shifts beneath his forehead like a hidden question. “Um, no?”, he appears confused. </p><p>          “Apparently you did because now the press are running the story.”</p><p>          “Oh,” Nelson shrugs, “I might of said something close to it.”</p><p>          “So you did call him that.”</p><p>          “With the fuckery I am getting up to with you? Why would I feel the need to publicly scorn him?”, and he turns his face away as if the conversation is over. </p><p>          But Alain feels the need to push boundaries tonight. “How do I know to believe you?”</p><p>          “You obviously don’t." Nelson seems slower these days. His senses less on edge but a lot calmer than the year before. It’s plenty an improvement. “I said I had <em> heard </em> something about it,” he emphasizes and scoots closer on the sofa they’re both sitting on, “I never said it directly.”</p><p>          Alain consigns himself to belief. “You should say you’re sorry,” he knows it is a mistake to ask these sorts of things of Nelson. </p><p>          As expected, Nelson scoffs, “Fuck that.”</p><p>          Alain frowns, “Why not?”</p><p>          “He is not so innocent in this, you know two years ago he went on a television interview and said I have a fucked up mind because of my screwed childhood. As if I wanted all of Brazil to know about it.”</p><p>          Nelson doesn’t like to talk about his father. Another part of him doesn’t really want to know. But a smaller piece already does. Alain signs as Nelson slips his arm around his shoulder and tugs him a little closer. Only because he is exhausted, Alain leans into the touch and falls asleep then and there in his arms wondering, knowing:</p><p><em>           It could be like this (if I let it). </em> </p><p>          Ayrton’s name is on his lips as his eyes shut. He imagines the scent of spices, motor oil and expensive cologne wrapping around him. </p><p> </p><p>_______________________</p><p>
  <b>May 1st</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain enjoys it when Ayrton’s eyes are on him. It's oddly alluring and magnifying. It draws him in and sends him to drown like a siren. He enjoys it most of all when he catches him doing it. Sometimes all he has to do is flicker a glance and there is is: watching him as if he was something to be desired. Slowly, their eyes move away. When Alain turns in the opposite direction he can sense the knives of his stare bleeding into the side of his skull. </p><p>
  <em>           What makes me to special? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>_______________________</p><p>
  <b>May 13th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Ayrton reaches across the table and in the faintest touch their hands brush up against each other. Unmoving, Alain finds himself sitting there while gentle shocks of electricity coarse up the shoots of his spine. He understands then what those poets are always talking about. His lips paint him meanings from across the room. </p><p>_______________________</p><p>
  <b>May 15th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Ayrton has a thirty second lead in the crash when he gets too comfortable and crashes into the barriers in Monaco. Alain ends up inheriting the race win. His teammate disappears and not a person knows where he is. </p><p>          “We all make mistakes,” Nelson shakes his head while Alain nibbles his cheek between his teeth, “I don’t understand why he has to be a child about it.” A sudden, sharp stops peak of rage barrels through Alain. He pushes on Nelson’s chest and they stumble back slightly. </p><p>          “What is your problem?”, he growls. Nelson appears surprised at this strong reaction. “I expect nothing less from you and your cold, empty heart,” clamping his fists he storms off leaving Nelson in the Lotus garage alone and untouched. </p><p>______________________________</p><p> </p><p>          Alain is worried and embarrassed about the idea that he is worried at all. That is why when Ayrton shows up at the track with his sunglasses drawn over his eyes several hours later and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his shorts, Alain hesitates before approaching him. Everyone has gone off to celebrate for the evening and he was helping deliberate with his engineer. When Ayrton's silhouette etches up the doorway of the garage, his engineer scampers off with his bag and a mutter of farewell, shutting the door off as he went. Ayrton seemed tense. His mouth drawn and tight, once- again, it is too dark out to be wearing glasses. It is so quiet they can hear the cars on the streets and the emphatic shouts from bars blocks away. </p><p>          “Why aren’t you celebrating?” Ayrton sounds groggy, tired and frustrated. </p><p>          Alain shrugs, “There is always time to do it later.” The night sky is infinite, making him feel only smaller, smaller and smaller… “Are you okay?”, he wonders. </p><p>          “We are not talking about that,” Ayrton frowns, “If I talk about it I am only going to get angry with you.”</p><p>          It hits him by surprise. “Hold on just a minute; I had nothing to do with your crash, Ayrton,” he waves him away, “That was all you.” Ayrton doesn’t like the sound of this but he lift his glasses off of his eyes and hangs them off the collar of his white shirt. He stands out, like fire in a dark forest. “Why would you be angry with me?”, smaller, smaller and smaller…</p><p>          Ayrton shakes his head and moves his attention away. His hair lays flatly against his head as though in only the course of a few hours he has aged years. “I misspoke,” he nods his head, “I am sorry for that.”</p><p>          “You did and I forgive you” </p><p>          The Brazilian has a quality to him, one that makes him want to put his hand out and brush the hair off of his forehead. Curl these little locks behind the shell of his ear (the ones that stick out too far and make him look infinitely younger than he is). Ayrton steps closer to him, close enough that the hairs on his arms stand straight and a breath of night air creeps along the nape of his neck. It is steady and deliberate, as if he were toying with him, winding him up.</p><p>          Ayrton’s fingertips scraped over his forearm, the spark of his touch lighting up the fibers of his skin like little christmas lights. His lips lean over and ghost the shell of his ear, his breath playing out on his sheath. Alain shuts his eyes, a satisfied sigh leaving him. Ayrton’s mouth ripples, pressing only to the corner of Alain's. Gradually, the warmth leaves him as they pull him away. </p><p>          Alain opens his eyes and reaches out suddenly. His finger hooks on the edge of Ayrton's sleeve as if his touch were words saying: <em> do not touch me if you have intent to leave. </em>His handprints were like tattoos; there forever as a silent reminder of him. </p><p> </p><p>______________________________</p><p> </p><p>          Alain barges into Nelson's room without giving time for him to even consider who was at the door. The first thing he did was jump on the bed and proclaim rather loudly: “I want you to fuck me now.”</p><p>          Nelson is in his underwear with a white towel draped over his neck. His hair wet from a shower and a toothbrush hangs out the corner of his mouth. “Right now?”, he mumbles.</p><p>          Growing impatient, Alain sits up and tosses his shoes off. “Yes, Nelson, are you deaf? Right now.” He begins pulling off his pants when Nelson gets the message, spits into the bathroom sink and comes back naked. </p><p>          Nelson grabs him forcefully, flipping Alain over onto his stomach when he is undressed. It is quick, with speed enough that Nelson groans, “Why are you being so needy tonight?”</p><p>          “Just get on with it,” Alain growls, arching his hips. Nelson's hands fiddle about with the bottle of lube and it takes so long that Alain snatches it from his hands and begins to prep himself without help. Just before Nelson pushes into him, Alain grabs his hands with a shake of his head, “No, from behind.” Slowly, Nelson rolls him, without question and lifts up his knees. </p><p>          “God, look at you,” he whispers into his back as Alain coils his fingers up in the sheets.</p><p>          “Stop talking.”</p><p>          He imagines the hands are a little rougher, the definitions tighter, the movements faster and his voice less shaky. He knows, as Nelson fucks him, that he will feel guilty afterwards. Here he is letting Nelson believe that he is really thinking of him and not someone else. When he reaches around to stroke him and he finishes in their hand without once looking at their face, he can imagine for just one second, only a minute that it is someone else’s hands on his body. Someone else that is playing in his mind. For that time: it is just hope.</p><p> </p><p>_______________________</p><p>
  <b>May 28th</b>
</p><p> </p><p><em>           I want to wear your touch around like a sweater</em>. </p><p>          Ayrton kisses him eventually. They’d gotten Mexican food at corner store and are pulled off onto a side road with the sun bleeding like apricots in the distance. There is a plastic bag full of empanadas and beef taquitos nestled in the center console between them. Alain kicks his knees up against the dashboard as he eats. That's when he hears Ayrton struggle in his seat to lean towards him. Their lips ghost against his cheek slowly, teasingly before drawing back. </p><p>          Alain snaps his neck towards him, “What are you doing?”</p><p>          Ayrton blinks at him like it was the most painfully obvious thing in the world. “Trying to kiss you.”</p><p>          “How do you know I even want to kiss you?”, this feels so childish he has to remind himself that he is thirty-three not thirteen. </p><p>          “I know,” he stammers briefly, “Can I kiss you then?”</p><p>          Alain has already grabbed the uncut of his jaw in an effort to tug it towards him. Fire flowed in his lips in a way then melted away every unsure thought. He could do this until all of the clocks have wound themselves out. The realization dawns upon him him: <em> we shouldn’t be doing this</em>. Despite what every part of him is begging himself to do, he jerks away. He rips his hands off the collar of Ayrton's shirt, settling back into his own seat and everything suddenly feels a little colder. </p><p>          Confused, Ayrton's expression perplexing. “What happened?”</p><p>          Alain rubs a hand over his eyelids, “We are teammates.”</p><p>          “And?”</p><p>          “We can’t do this,” he admits. </p><p>          The frustration in Ayrton's voice is evident. “You mean <em> you </em> can’t do this.” After a moment of rigid silence he turns the key in the ignition and reverses the vehicle so quick that it picks up the dust into the air. Alain doesn’t say a word but <em> he </em> does. “I can’t play mind games with you anymore,” he swallows, “<em>I </em>can’t.”</p><p>          “I’m not trying to.”</p><p>          “But you are.”</p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>June 10th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain is tired of games too. On Friday a few hours after practice in Canada he waits outside of Ayrton’s hotel room, leaning against the wall. He’d been waiting for close to an hour when he catches the pad of footsteps coming around the corner. At the sight of movement, he sits up off of the floor. Ayrton stands in front of him, still and pensive. </p><p>          “What do you want?”, he exhales, reaching past him to slip the key into the lock and turn it. He leaves the door open a crack after he has stepped past as if to invite him in (without doing so). </p><p>          “I shouldn’t be playing games with you,” Alain shuts the door behind him. Ayrton drops his bag beside the desk with his keys on top. “I’ve decided not to… anymore,” he doesn’t quite know how to word it. </p><p>          Ayrton halts and draws himself nearer. His hand plants on the wall above to Alain head with a vacant stare. Alain swallows as he speak, “And what does that mean, Alain?” </p><p>          Temptation. Alain does the only thing he thinks of doing: he kisses him. He slams their lips together in swift second of surprise. He cares too much and too brightly like wildfire or the serrated edge of a knife. It shouldn't make him crazy or make him want to scratch at his skin. Ayrton melts into him, sliding his hands down at his sides to cup his hips, urging him to press against him. Alain’s finger thread, lacing into the dark curls at the back of Ayrton's neck to drag his lips down. Ayrton's fingers tug at the hem of his shirt, lifting it gradually over up and up until it he has to raise his arms to allow it to slip over his head. Their mouths move apart for just a moment. Alain opens his eyes as Ayrton removes his own before clashing back into him, tilting his jaw up to kiss at the pulse in his throat. </p><p>          Pulling at his legs, Ayrton's lifts him up and places him on the edge of the bed. Alain clings to him, straddling his waist as though he were a little raft bobbing in a sea. Ayrton trailing on his shorts and tugging them from him. Ayrton reaches between his legs, spitting into his own hand and strokes him a few times. Alain’s nails dig gently into the flesh of his back. He doesn't rush, he takes his time quickly rushing over every part of him.</p><p>          The first time they make love Ayrton’s breath tumbles in waves out of his tongue onto his skin, sending shivers of pleasure knotting from his spine. A little galaxy opens up, the universe conspired with him and the stars approved; for the first time in a long, long time everything felt right. In the center of the embrace of warmth, the scent of his neck, the uneven sharpness of his hands and the fierceness of his soul, he discovered a little place for himself. </p><p>          Ayrton has miles of freckles covering his back, cascading over his shoulder in little dots over his nose and beneath his eyes. His eyes, wide and black study Alain, collecting tiny pieces of him with his large and extravagant features. Most importantly:</p><p><em>           It felt good</em>. </p><p>          Alain leaves in the morning just before sunlight breaks with a tiny note he set by the bedside table. He would've preferred to stay in that bed with the sky lighting up Ayrton's features until the end of time. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>June 11th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “I haven’t seen you in a few days,” Nelson squeezes an elbow around Alain's neck. </p><p>          Alain pushes him away, “I have been busy.”</p><p>          “Are you ever going to have time for me?”, he mocks. Alain hums and he looks up in time to see Ayrton had arrived in the paddock. He passes him a smile before shooting his glance back down to his helmet. </p><p>          Nelson take note this quick interaction. “What is up between you two?”, he interrogates, placing his hands onto his hips, “You act like…”, he thinks for a second, “Teenagers or something.”</p><p>          “What is it to you?”, Alain retorts, shaking his head dismally. </p><p>          Nelson grows quiet, almost pensive. “I was only asking,” he mutters. Alain thought he had left but then a shadow passes back over him, “Come to my room tonight.” </p><p>          Alain shields his eyes and there he is still and standing above him. “Sorry, but--”</p><p>          “Nine is good for me.”</p><p>          “Nelson--”</p><p>          “Is nine good for you?”</p><p>          “Listen to me--”</p><p>          “That’s good. I’ll see you then.”</p><p>          Defeated, Alain groans and slaps his hands over his face, rubbing circular motions into his eyelids. Nelson's face is serious as it has ever been, maybe even a little desperate as if he was searching for something he had lost (maybe he had). “Alright, you will.”</p><p>          Nelson smiles weakly, one that does not quite stretch to his eyes, “Fine.”</p><p>          “Fine.”</p><p>___________________________</p><p> </p><p>          Nelson must have been waiting for him because after Alain reluctantly trudges up the stairs, he knocks once and the door gushes open. Speed enough to cause him to tumble into the room. Nelson grins as he enters, almost cautiously. </p><p>          “Good, you actually showed up,” he stalks back towards the room, tossing the tv remote onto the sheets before hopping on the edge. “I ordered food and they get more than one channel here,” his attention is directed towards the box. Head spinning, Alain remains in the corner unmoving. Nelson turns his attention back towards him, his brows knit together, “What is wrong, Alain?” The words don’t just reach his tongue, they ball up and matt in his vocals chords. He stumbles for a moment for just the right thing to say. “Alain?”, he repeats. </p><p>          Alain gathers himself and puts on a stiff simper. “It is fine,” he makes his way towards him, sitting all but a few inches away. </p><p>          Not noticing anything out of the ordinary, Nelson grabs Alain's hip and pulls him closer until their thighs collide. Alain stiffens. The food arrives and Nelson finally removes his hand to answer the door. He flips through the networks after he hands out plates and stops on a film. Alain doesn't pay attention, he eats and chews slowly with the corner of his eye laid on Nelson. Gradually, Nelson also begins to pay less attention to the movie and more to him. He inches closer to him, placing a hand gently on his leg. Alain ignores him and ignores the little excuses Nelson is creating to touch him. <em>I don't want this anymore</em>, he wishes he could work up enough courage tell them that. </p><p>          Nelson’s hand drapes around his shoulders, tangling over the back of his neck. His fingertips brush slowly over his upper arm. The feeling is warm, of being curled, coiled in his arms with the soft sense of his comfort present. And he knows, he remembers, that it is not where he belongs. Nelson leans over towards him and presses his lips gently to his cheekbone, to the corner of his eye and the arch of his nose; down to the point of his chin and then the edge of his mouth. His hands, they sweep over his abdomen, up over his chest across his skin. It makes all of the hairs on his body stand on end.</p><p>          Nelson whispers it onto his skin as a prayer, “You smell like cinnamon.”</p><p>          Alain’s eyes shoot open. <em>It's not me</em>. He should kiss him back, he should knot his fingers in the front of his shirt and chew his lips like liquor to forget everything. But Alain remembers, he remembers how soft Ayrton's hands feel, how chapped his lips are and, most of all, he remembers:</p><p>
  <em>           It’s not you I want. </em>
</p><p>          Alain leaps away, pushing a hand on his chest. Nelson switches off the television quickly and bounces onto his knees. “What’s wrong?”, he rushes as Alain shifts to the edge of the bed and places his feet on the floor. </p><p>          Alain hangs his head down, focusing on the tiny fibers of the carpet. “We can’t do this anymore,” he turns around. Nelson freezes stiffly, his eyes blinking off into space. </p><p>          “What do you mean?”, he tastes the words slowly as if it tastes unfamiliar and he is unsure of their texture.</p><p>          “<em>This</em>,” Alain gestures all around before standing to his feet. Slipping off the bed, Nelson forms on the either side of the bed. “These weekend hookups between us,” his shoulders drop with a weight of relief. There is an utter and complete silence in the air. Time lays suspended and unwound before them.</p><p>          “Weekend hookups?”, Nelson cocks his head and his mouth purses together. “Is this all that this is to you?”, he clenches his jaw, “Weekend fucking hookups?” His fists clamp at the sides of his hips. </p><p>          “What else was it?”, Alain rolls. Something feels missing in the gaps of his knowledge. </p><p><em>           Was</em>.</p><p>          Nelson pauses and his eyes bent as bullets. “Why?”, is all he asks. </p><p>          Alain is like a deer in headlights, blinking bright lights shining over him. “There's someone else.”</p><p>          “Someone?”, he scoffs, “We both have someone. You have a wife at home, do you remember that?” Alain doesn’t answer that but his attention tumbling nervously towards the ground spoke more than sentences ever could. A gear settles in place within Nelson's brain. “You--”, Nelson loosens and swallows hard, “You slept with him, didn’t you?” Alain is silent. “Didn’t you, Alain?”</p><p>          “Yes.”</p><p>          Nelson pulls himself towards the counter, his palms digging into the mantlepiece, knuckles ivory in the glow of the ceiling lights. “Get out,” he huffs, his attention flies for a moment at his reflection in the mirror. </p><p>          The air is still, thick with tension. “Maybe we should--”</p><p>          “I don’t need someone like you,” he snaps. The amount of anger seems misplaced. </p><p>          “Calm down, please.”</p><p>          “Get out,” Nelson growls. His eyes have a tenderness to them even as the rage in the rest of his body betrays him.</p><p>          “Nelson--”</p><p>          “Get the fuck out!”, without thought, he reaches behind him and grabs one of the books lying there. It lunges across the room, thrown it at such a force that it makes a dent in the wall next to Alain’s shoulder. “Get out, get out, get out!”, he shouts with a burn in his throat. Immediately, he picks up another book, tossing it at him as he ducks out of the door, slamming it behind him. Despite leaving, Alain can hear the sound of items hitting the door over and over and over again even as he is already down the hallway. </p><p>
  <em>           Does my touch burn like acid now that I am gone? Is every memory a war drum in the distance? Every word seems to be poison in your ears? </em>
</p><p>          Alain leaves and doesn’t look back. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> __________________________</p><p>
  <b>July 1st</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain tries talking to him in France a few moments before practice. He sees him across the pitlane by the wall and crosses over towards him. Before the words have even left his mouth, Nelson is already striding of. Alain's mouth hangs open as if he is going to shout at him then and there to turn around and face him. Instead, he only stands still and watches him leave. Alain shakes his head and pivots back to the McLaren garage. </p><p>          “What’s wrong?”, Ayrton asks as he approaches. </p><p>          He shakes his head the lie on his lips feels as natural as air: “Nothing, nothing at all.”</p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>July 10th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          After the race, his heart continues to pump furiously into the evening. The hotel pool gives him somewhat of a reverie as he allows his neck fall back and his eyes to shut as the cool water laps up against his shoulders. </p><p>          “You’re clenching your jaw,” Ayrton pokes a finger against his cheek. </p><p>          Alain peeks one eye open and peers at him. “I didn’t notice,” he couldn’t manage to undo it, however. </p><p>          “You’re still angry over the race,” Ayrton slides up beside him, grabbing onto his upper arm. </p><p>          Alain frowns, “No,” he picks his head back up. “I don’t get angry,” he mock smiled and sunk a little farther into the water. </p><p>          Ayrton rolls his eyes, “Right; only annoyed, correct?”</p><p>          Alain flicks him in the shoulder. The tension has left his shoulders suddenly. He splashes the water at Ayrton with a slight but soft grin. Perhaps he should of checked the temperature before jumping into love but something about it has him climbing into arms that both terrify and calm him. Ayrton slips a hand over his thigh, squeezes the area sharply and then shifts his hand away. In the hotel room twenty minutes later, Alain is running a towel through his curls when Ayrton inquires (from the bed):</p><p>          “You spend all of your time in my room,” he leans on his side, lain out over the sheets. His hair is still wet and matted to the edges of his forehead. </p><p>          “And?”, Alain pauses his movements. </p><p>          Ayrton rolls onto his back, placing his hands behind his head. “What is the point in having a hotel room when you don’t go there?”</p><p>          Alain folds his towel and slips a shirt on, crawling across the bed towards the headboard. “Is this your way of telling me you want to share hotel rooms from now on?”, he smirks.</p><p>          Ayrton's brows furrow, “Maybe.”</p><p>          Alain presses a kiss to his temple and he hums gently from the touch. </p><p>          “Okay, Ayrton.”</p><p>          He likes to think that he is lucky (and he is).</p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>August 4th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “<em>Alain</em>,” Nelson’s voice is calm for once, his tone soft as clay, “<em>Let me explain.</em>”</p><p>          Alain harkens back to that morning at breakfast flipping through the sports journal. He doesn’t usually react so strongly (and he regrets it) but he tossed the paper across the table.  </p><p>          Ayrton had given him a curious expression and pushed his plate away. “What’s up with you?”, he picked up the paper from his food. Alain stayed silent, swallowed tightly and moved his head towards the window, cupping his jaw with a sigh. </p><p>          “<em>Are you there? </em> ”, Nelson's voice smashed him from his hallucination. He pinches the bridge of his nose and hanging his head down. “<em>You can’t ignore me</em>.”</p><p>          Alain chuckles weakly, “I could say the same about you.” Alain didn’t think it would matter so very much to him: Nelson discrediting him as a driver, in a public paper no less. </p><p>          There is a hint of quiet on the other line and an air of restless thoughts. “<em>I’ll guess you have read it?"</em>, he stammers. </p><p>          Alain feels his breath hitch and resists the urge to crinkle the bedsheets between his fingers. “Of course, I have. Why the hell would you ever say something like that?”</p><p>          “<em>I didn’t</em>.”</p><p>          “Okay then,” Alain scoffs. </p><p>          “<em>Honestly, I said the opposite, they twisted my words. Don’t believe it.</em>”</p><p>          He shakes his head, “I’ve never been able to trust anything you say, you realize that?”</p><p>          There is a quietude and Alain presses the phone closer to his ear as if to hope to hear even only a ghost of his breath. “<em>I know.</em>”</p><p>          “How do I know you’re not lying?”</p><p>          “<em>Because I am not.</em>”</p><p>          Alain rubs his fingers over his eyelids, moving the phone away from his ear and closing his eyes. “Goodbye, Nelson.”</p><p>          He is about to put it down when he hears it crackle over the line: “<em>Alain</em>.” His name is wrapped up in sadness, a black box and navy bow. </p><p>          He hesitates, “Goodbye.” But he waits this time. </p><p>          “<em>Goodbye, Alain</em>,” it sounds hollow.</p><p>          A few minutes later, Ayrton enters the room with a few grocery bags under his arm. Alain is still sitting where he was on the phone. “What are you doing?”, he places the bags on the counter of the tiny kitchen in their hotel room. Slowing rising to his feet, Alain saunters into the area, standing on the linoleum floor in his bare feet. </p><p>          “It's all okay,” he grins and kisses his cheek as he passes to help him. They stuff everything into the few cabinets and the mini-fridge with relative easy. He whispers to himself, under his breath, <em> nothing more than an old friend; an old friend and nothing more.  </em></p><p>          “What are you going to make?”, Ayrton comes up behind, looping his hands over Alain’s waist and pressing against him. His chin rests atop his hair. </p><p>          He turns on the tap, “Pasta.” He fills it up and then places it on the burner. </p><p>          “That’s boring,” Ayrton chuckles airly, grabbing up the salt and pinching a bit into the water. </p><p>          “But it’s easy,” Alain waves his finger. </p><p>          “Whatever you make will be good for me.”</p><p>          “Thanks,” he scoffs and pulls out a cutting board from the bottom shelf.</p><p><em>           If only you knew how much these little moments matter to me</em>. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>September 11th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Ayrton doesn’t even wait until they get back to privacy before he blows up. </p><p>          “That bastard Schlesser,” he clenches his fists as he storms off the paddock, “Who the hell does he think he is?”</p><p>          Alain doesn’t trust him to drive that day. He grabs the keys from his pocket when he isn’t paying attention because Ayrton tends to rage while he is driving. The entire drive it's incessant. Ayrton digs his nails into the leather of the car door and hisses under his breath every five seconds. Alain keeps quiet, even as he begins to snap at his driving. </p><p>          “Are you even listening to me?”, he questions, gesturing towards the stop sign he rolled slowly towards. </p><p>          Alain murmurs, keeping his eyes on the road, “Of course.”</p><p>          Ayrton crosses his arms, “No you’re not.”</p><p>          “Didn’t I just say I was?”</p><p>          He shakes his head furiously as he cuts little nail indents into his own skin with the force he is holding himself. “You’re lying to me,” he huffs under his breath for the rest of the car ride. Alain only exhales, allowing his shoulders tumble. In the hotel room, Alain drops his bag by the bed and peels off his clothing for a shower to clean the sweat off of his body. “You are not taking me seriously,” Ayrton sits in a chair in the corner staring at him, his legs lain out in front of him. </p><p>          Alain chuckles, “It happens, you know that as well as anyone. It’s racing.” He begins to trifle through his suitcase, stealing his eyes off of him, “There is no use getting worked up over it.”</p><p>          “I’m not worked up,” he denies.  </p><p>          “You are.”</p><p>          It seems like little but once he says it, it stiffens him up. “You’re old, that’s why you don’t care. Some of us still do, Alain."</p><p>         His heart beats like a little bee’s wings and Alain  ignores the pinch it gives him. “I’m not old,” he replies. </p><p>          “I have been beating you in nearly every race,” he bites on his inner cheek, nipping at his fingernails with a concerning glint in his eye. A hint of melancholy or anger--perhaps it is both. “All season long, I have been. They said you would be a challenge."</p><p>          Alain pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m going to get my own hotel room.”</p><p>          Ayrton’s brown eyes go wide and he sits up, “And leave me here?”</p><p>          “You deserve it,” he mutters, grabbing his stuff and heading for the door. “My plane leaves tomorrow morning, apologize before then and stop being an asshole.” </p><p>          It is different, spending a night alone for the first time in months. Everything has a way of reminding him of them. The darkness, and the empty sheets. He finds himself awake the entire night hoping maybe the next time he rolled over they would be there. The bed is empty and yet his head is so full of him that he fills up all of his dreams. Without sleep, he gets up with a grumble at four in the morning. His belongings are already packed. A knock at four-thirty startles him enough that he jumps up. He wonders if it is from lack of sleep but Ayrton is standing there when he opens it. Alain’s eyes sweep over him. </p><p>          “I hope I am not too late,” he smiles softly and holds something out to him. Alain is so tired that he doesn’t notice what it is until his eyesight concretes.</p><p>          “Are those…”, he reaches for the bottom of it and cradles it in his hands, “Roses?” The plastic crinkles in his hands but he stares into them. Sure enough, a dozen of them are peeking out at him in a bouquet. He steps aside, letting Ayrton into his room before shutting the door behind him. “Where did you even get these?”, he manages a smirk as he holds them. </p><p>          Ayrton waves him away, “That is not important.” </p><p>          When Alain rips one of his hands away, there is dirt on his palms. “Did you get these from the front lawn?”, he laughs, his head tossing back. </p><p>          Ayrton frowns, “No, at three in the morning I managed to important them straight from a rose farm in Denmark.”</p><p>          “So, you cut them out from the garden?”</p><p>          Ayrton rocks his head, “Yes. But--”</p><p>          Alain cups his jaw and cuts him off with a kiss, his fingers trailing over his collarbone towards his neckline. He pulls away, “I have to call a taxi to go to the airport.”</p><p>          “I am going to drive you,” Ayrton jingles the keys, opening the door for him and waiting in the hall. </p><p>          The sky is still dark, the navy blue just breaking away lighter in the distance. “I don’t know if I can take these on the plane,” Alain mutters, turning the flowers over and over in his hands. </p><p>          “Oh,” Ayrton bemoans, “You’re right.”</p><p>          Alain runs his hand over his leg, squeezes his knee. “It’s a nice gesture, thank you.”</p><p>          “It is an ‘I’m sorry’ present,” he winces as the car lurches over the dusty street. </p><p>          “It is sweet.”</p><p>          Ayrton shrugs, “Of course it is.” He turns his attention towards the passenger seat and Alain senses his eyelids lifting in and out. “Have much did you sleep?”, Ayrton inquires, the lines of his face are firm. </p><p>          Alain yawns, “Not much.”</p><p>          “Not much?”</p><p>          “A few meager hours,” he admits. </p><p>          Ayrton sighs, “Go to sleep, you have a long day ahead of you.”</p><p>          Alain only murmurs an incoherent reply. He rests his head against the window of the car, his breath fogging at the glass up. He falls asleep within seconds with a bit of a grin plastered on his visage. Ayrton holds him for a moment in front of his terminal, his nose digging into his curls. Alain snags his fingers on the lapels of his coat, tugging him a little closer and tucking his chin under his neck. He lifts his face, pinches his chin and presses a little kiss to the center of his brow. </p><p>          Alain scrunches his nose, “You’re acting like I am going off to war.”</p><p>          Ayrton shrugs, “I am not going to see you for a few weeks.”</p><p>          He shrugs, “I know.”</p><p>          Even as he is walking away, he can still ambiance his warmth on his skin. He traces his fingers over the window in the plane, the very same blue has split into a magnificent array of peach. His touch brushes against the spots of tan sunlight coming through onto the window. He can’t help thinking how much they remind him of his freckles. A small simper meets his lips as he dozes back off. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>September 25th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          It is at turn fourteen that Alain is guiding his car through the apex when he is suddenly bumped off of the track. His wheels knock together with that of another’s and his hands jitter on the wheel. Clouds of dust form around him, masking the air as he attempts to speed off of the gravel. His first reaction was to yip out <em> merde </em> and then flip his visor up so that he can see the tailend of the bastard who’d nearly taken him out of the race. A part of him is surprised, another part of him is not when he recognizes the red McLaren as it speeds back off onto the track. Alain breathes slowly, a vacant sensation meshes deep in the pit of his stomach. He swallows and blinks back to attention.</p><p>          Two hours later, after the podium celebration, Alain is doing up the laces on his sneakers when Ayrton arrives in the garage with an unsatisfied smile encompassing his features. Alain keeps his head down and when he stands upright, Ayrton is standing right in front of him. </p><p>          He speaks first. “You were too close to me,” Ayrton's face is stern, “It was your fault you were pushed into the wall.”</p><p>          Alain’s mouth bobs open and shut for a moment. He raises a brow, “Excuse me?”</p><p>          “You,” he pointed his finger into his chest, “You have no right to be angry at me. It is your doing, you did it to yourself.”</p><p>          Alain crosses his arms. Most of all he expected an apology, not to be accused of anything. His tongue burns with things to say--he wants to stamp his foot and curse at him for performing such a stupid maneuver. Instead, he only stands there as Ayrton's eyes flash sharp and menacing at him from above. “But you--”, he starts. </p><p>          “But what?”, Ayrton interrupts firmly. </p><p>          Alain opens his mouth. He want to remind him of the special place in hell he’ll meet him if he ends up killing him. His attention pans downwards, “But nothing.” More than anything he wonders why he submits himself to dangerous men. Perhaps it was all part of the fun after all. </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>October 1st</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Sometimes Alain does think of him. Most often it is the sight of him which provokes these thoughts. Nelson will be leaning against the pit wall or speaking quietly with Satoru with his usual amusing grin. If Alain stares too long at Nelson, his gaze lingers and begins to he notices certain things. The corner of his mouth doesn’t rise as high as it used to, he is calmer, relaxed like a timeless man is. His smiles are strained, distant as if he is attempting to rekindle a certain flame within himself again. He wears his grin like an apology, stretching over his teeth. A little history tucks itself into the creases of his eyes. It clutches to things he never said to him, opens itself only for him to read every night. Alain moves his head again and he swears Nelson's eyes are on him so he pretends he was never looking in the first place. It's like a whisper lost in the wind or a grain of sand tumbling through the long funnel of an hourglass.</p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>October 30th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain’s championship hopes are lost. His smile is tight lipped but honest as he can be when he congratulates Ayrton on his first championship. Ayrton glows with confidence that night, a glimmer of extraordinary happiness or pride. He worked hard for it, he deserves it. Alain is carried in his arms as though floating above skyfall, everything of him dawned in light, longing for this to always find him (<em> it will, I pray, it will always be there </em>). He snags a lock of their curls around his finger as they sleep beside him. Day by day Ayrton’s scent seemed less and less of cinnamon and more and more of home… It clings to his clothing, the threads of his sweaters. It provides no extended warmth, but heats his heart more than any coals could. </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>November 15th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “Does it always feel like this?”, Ayrton asks. They are both sitting in front of a fireplace with the flames passing shadows over the confines of the walls like visual stories. </p><p>          “What does?”, Alain shifts his sight towards him. The blanket covers both of their bodies, links them together as he rests his head on their shoulder. </p><p>          “Winning the world championship,” Ayrton shuffles, “Because I don’t know if I can get rid of this… this feeling.”</p><p>          Alain scoots in closer, lifting his legs onto their lap, raising his head up to their ghost his mouth over his ear. “You never get over it.”</p><p>          Ayrton peers at him long and hard for a instant, the embers light up the freckles on his face and the hardened but genuine kindness in his eyes. He kisses him, pushing him onto his back over the arm of the couch, guiding his hand under the blanket between his legs. Alain manages an audible moan as his lips move over his neck. It is sudden, but Ayrton stops before peeling off his shirt, his focus falling to the fireplace. The ash shadows over the constellation marks on his back. </p><p>          “I didn’t think they had fireplaces in Australia,” is all he says before his face buries back down on his neck. </p><p>          Alain can’t imagine a better place than right here. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed and if you did please comment! My Tumblr is @pieregasly is there is anything else that you guys want! The first chapter of 1989 will be published on July 5th.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! Please comment I really appreciate it. You can find my tumblr at @pieregasly if you have any questions or further comments! Chapter II will drop in exactly two weeks on June 5th.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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